Fragile
by One-Eternity-Drive
Summary: She notices the things that most people fail to see; even in the most obvious situations.


**Authors Note: **The rating of this story is "T", however, there is one section of this that is 'Not Safe For Work'. Other than that, nothing to worry about.**  
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**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any other Company/Product/Copyrighted thing in this story.

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><p>You get pretty good at noticing things when people leave you alone. It's not that I don't like people, because I really do. And it's not like people don't like me, because I think they do too. A lot. But when people think that you're…dumb…they tend to forget that you're there or they'll leave you out of the conversation because they think you can't keep up. I don't mind though- I actually like being with my own thoughts most of the time. It just helps me observe things all the better.<p>

I may not know the square root of four, and I may constantly forget where my Spanish class is, but I am able to see things that most other people can't. I'm able to _read_ things that most people can't. For instance, most people can see Quinn reading a book before Glee rehearsal: quiet, calm and in her own world. Most people don't see, however, is how all of that changes when Rachel walks in. Every time Rachel arrives, all smiles and full of dreams about Gold Stars, the color in Quinn's cheeks increase tenfold and she grips the edges of her book so hard that sometimes I wonder if the spine is going to break. It happens so quickly that the first time I saw it, I almost thought it didn't happen at all. When Rachel eventually takes her seat, usually after talking for a ridiculous amount of time, the color eventually fades from Quinn face, and she releases her grip on her book. Still, she keeps her eyebrows raised, like it's her own personal way of keeping tabs on Rachel. Quinn's subtle like that; she's not one to show her emotions easily, but when it comes to Rachel, she can't ever seem to control them. If I'm sitting next to Quinn when Rachel walks in, I tap her lightly on the leg and give her an understanding smile, just to help her release some of the tension she's keeping inside.

Another thing most people don't see is the look on Mike's face after every group performance. Mike dances just as easily as he breathes (sometimes I wonder if dancing is like breathing for him), but his eyes wander off to his side, as if something's missing. He's gotten so good at masking his emotions that no one else seems to notice if something is wrong with him. Not even Tina. But I do, of course. If you wait long enough, you can see him after rehearsal pulling out his phone, typing something quickly onto the small keypad with a childlike smile on his face. After one of our rehearsals for Sectionals, he walked passed me, typing away into his phone, when I caught the last four letters of the name on his screen: "-ford". I realized he was texting Matt. I made it my duty to always grab his hand after each rehearsal, just in case he ever felt lonely.

Some kids like to read books, magazines, or even the back of the cereal box, but I prefer to read people. Okay, maybe I lied a bit. Occasionally, I do allow myself to indulge in the antics of the CinnaMon and Apple on the Apple Jack box, but I generally prefer to read those around me. Everyone from Patches, who only barks at my mom when she's bringing home peanut butter from the Supermarket to Miss. Pillsbury, who lets her irrational fear of intimacy control her life in the most suffocating way possible. It amazes me how people in Lima assume that they're the only one going through issues. Everyone in this small town knows each other on the outside, but if they would just pay attention to each other, they would see how similar they really are. They're all so beautifully flawed, each and every one of them, in their own unique way.

The people of Lima are full of stories, and I'm the only person that gets to read them.

I normally don't have issues getting to know what lies beneath the false smiles of the people in this town, but the only person I seem to have trouble with is her. I spend so much of my time trying to decipher what's going on inside her mind that people all too often assume that I'm having a "Brittany Moment". If only they knew that a single "Brittany Moment" can lead me to knowing things about them that they didn't even know existed. But back to her. I spend my time over analyzing every look she sneaks my way, every 'accidental' touch that brushes past my hand, every breath she releases when she lifts me up higher on the pyramid that it sends my brain into overdrive all the time- so much so that I've accidentally called everyone from my teachers to my own mother by her name. It wasn't always this way though. I don't even know how we even got to this place, but I do know that there was a time when she was the only one that I didn't need to put any effort into reading. I could see everything she wanted to tell me by looking into those dark eyes that hid from everyone else. Those eyes that began to hide from me the moment feelings got involved. To be honest, feelings were always there- it was just whether or not we acknowledged them. I can't consciously remember losing those brown eyes; I just know that now they're gone, I can't seem to think of anything thing else.

But I do remember, the first time I ever met those eyes. I had my nose in the paper on my desk, trying my hardest to color inside the lines- that's how Quinn told me I was supposed to color. All of my other drawings taped on the fridge at home had color going every which way, but Quinn told me one day after lunch that coloring inside the lines was 'proper'. Ever since then I'd taken my time, making sure that each and every slide of my crayon stayed neatly inside the thick black outline of whatever I was coloring. I remember sticking my tongue out with deep concentration when a hand tapped me lightly on the forehead.

"Do you have an extra purple?" I heard her ask so clearly.

When my eyes fell upon hers, I couldn't do anything other than unconsciously hold out the purple crayon in my own hand. It probably wasn't smart of me to color horses purple anyway, but at least Quinn would be happy that it was inside the lines. She made no move to grab the crayon, instead her eyes scanned my drawing, and I instantly felt stupid for coloring a horse something other than brown, black or white. She looked at me for what could have been eternity before asking, "Why were you coloring so hard?"

My eyes looked down at the paper and I noticed the indentations from the pressure I put on the crayon. I slid my fingers over the center of the horse, feeling the raised markings over the paper from the wooden desk I was working on. I put so much strain on my crayon that the paper was wearing down and had become thin. Lowering my head, I mumbled, "Quinn told me you should always color in the lines. She says it's the rules."

She made a noise that sounded like a laugh when she took the crayon from my hand. Her little arms reached across the table and grabbed my drawing, hiding it from me when she bent her head over it, her pigtails strewn across the page. She lifted up with a smile, and for a moment, I panicked, wondering what she had done. With the index finger of her left hand, she slid the sheet across the table, and afterwards, sat with her fingers laced. I chewed on my bottom lip nervously while I bent my head to look at my drawing. I tilted my head to the side with confusion when I noticed she'd drawn a single line across the middle of my horse. She didn't cross it out and she didn't color it all over- all she did was draw a simple line across the page. Scribbled haphazardly in the corner was "Santana wus here".

When I looked back up into those eyes, I saw she was still wearing that coy smile that would eventually evolve into something more over the years. Simply, she said to me, "Sometimes rules are meant to be broken."

I often look back at that memory and wonder if she was the one reading me.

I also remember the first time those eyes have ever lied to me. Going to school was never my favorite thing once there were no longer naps involved. I had a hard time picking up and remembering concepts in class, and my teachers would get so fed up with me that they would just leave me out of the lesson completely. Word of mouth got around to the other teachers (and students) about my lack of comprehension, so they let me coast by each year, not even making an effort to teach me because they thought it would be pointless. So instead of following along with the lesson, I turned my attention to those around me, studying their behaviors and watching them closely. That became my new favorite subject. I never really understood the term 'dumb blonde' until my second grade teacher described me as such; after that, I focused so much time into reading those around me that I didn't even care what anyone thought of me. By the time Middle School had rolled around, I was able to read people as quickly and as accurately as I could pick up dance steps. It comes second nature to me, so for Santana of all people to try and lie to me was just…unusual.

We were in her room, watching some film from the 90's that she had stolen from her older sister. In hindsight, I probably should have noticed something was up when she chose to pick _Cruel Intentions_. Even without the prior knowledge, I could feel her tense up on the bed in front of me when Sarah Michelle Gellar and Semla Blair inched closer on the screen. I was sitting at the head of the bed, and she was lying on the edge with her back to me. Still, I could see her shoulders go rigid when the mouths of the girls on screen met. I don't remember when I stopped paying attention to the film and started paying attention to her, but when she spoke up, I was brought out of my thoughts.

"We should try that…" she trailed off. She had gotten so still that I was half expecting her to spontaneously combust. I could hear how careful she was at trying to sound nonchalant, but the involuntary inflections in her voice were giving her away. She craned her neck around to look me in the eyes and finished, "as practice. For guys."

I won't pretend that my heart broke in two from her blatant lie, but there was a twinge of something in my chest. Plainly, with a slight smile on my face, I told her, "You're lying."

She sat up so quickly I was afraid she might fall off that bed. "What!" She stared at me with this skeptical look on her face, as though it was crafted for herself to believe, and not me.

I smiled, and chuckled to myself. "You don't want to do it for 'practice', San. You just want to kiss me." I knew I struck a nerve when her eyes began darting across the room, eventually settling on the floor. I could see a flush creep its way over the bridge of her nose and suddenly I became aware of how heavily she'd begun to breathe.

She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed out, "You don't have to do it if you don't want to."

Although she didn't know it, she was telling me more by sitting on that bed, refusing to look at me, than she had ever done before that point. I crawled over the bed slowly, fixing myself right in front of her, forcing her to look at me.

I reached my hand out for her knee, and as a smile played on my lips, grabbed her chin with my other hand. "I never said I didn't want to."

She wrinkled her mouth, and by this point, I couldn't tell if the heart I was hearing was mine or hers. She held my gaze, but her eyes shifted from my eyes to my lips rapidly. She swallowed hard, and whispered, "It doesn't have to mean anything."

Another lie. I didn't call her out on this one though; I let her have it. Once she licked her lips softly, I was finished with calling her out on them. I leaned forward and pushed my lips on hers.

It was a whole new way of reading her than I had ever expected. The hand that was cupping her chin migrated towards the back of her head, and I found myself sliding my tongue across her bottom lip. One of her hands gripped my shoulder and I could feel a faint stinking in my hips where the nails of her other hand were digging in, but I didn't care. When her tongue found its way into my mouth, it was as though she was telling me secrets that she'd long been waiting to tell. I pulled her closer, finding more chapters to explore through. I bookmarked her skin by peppering kisses across her neck, her chest and anything else that was exposed.

I was lost in her pages, and when I finally emerged, flopping backwards on her bed with swollen lips and a heaving chest, I knew that she was the most interesting person I've ever read so far.

The thing I remember most, however, is the first time I ever really _saw_ her. Once our relationship turned physical, I knew there was no turning back. Kissing behind closed doors was just as easy as sex after hours in the locker room. The looks she threw me were no longer subtle -I doubt they ever were- and I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before one of us was pushed against a set of lockers or against a locked bathroom door with our skirts bunched around the waist. It was a routine I welcome because it was a new chapter to be read.

As natural as the progression of our relationship was, I couldn't get past how she would never look me in the eyes. In the heat of the moment, it's to be expected that you close your eyes due to the sheer awesomeness of what's going on, but never did her eyes meet mine. Once clothes came off, she would look away, or shut her eyes so tight, that I knew she was only doing so to imagine someone else on top of her. She was easy to read like that, but I knew looking in her eyes would open up something new. I was at an open book that was missing a chapter- I just had to find it.

The sheets were long gone, and her hand print was already burned into my skin where she was gripped me tightly. I was three fingers in, pushing my pelvis onto my forearm to add more force, rocking her forward to send her over the edge. My other hand gripped the headboard of my bed to stable myself, as she dug into my hips with her hands to keep me steady. I could see the beads of sweat dripping down her neck and all I could think about, as she arched her back into me, was looking into those dark brown eyes.

She was panting quicker, but quieter than usual and when I felt her grip loosen around my waist, and I knew it was going to be over for her soon. I wasn't ready. There was so much I hadn't read, so much I hadn't seen, so much I wanted to know. I removed my hand from the headboard, and placed it on the side of her cheek, leaning in closer until I was our breaths mingled. She opened her legs wider, and wrapped them around me, inviting me in further- in more ways than one.

"San," I breathed out, tired and raspy. "San..."

She responded with a whimper of my name, followed by a frantic claw at my back. I smoothed out the hair that was clinging to the sweat on her forehead, while I curled into her with my other hand. She threw her head back on the mattress, biting down on her lip so hard I knew she would leave marks. "San," I tried again, "Open your eyes."

I could see the fear in her face when she shook her head. I twisted my own, but I knew there was no real purpose in doing so since she refused to look at me. When her legs began to tremble, I did what I knew would get a response out of her. I slowed my movements considerably, causing her to adjust to the new pace, and I pulled my hand out slightly. She wrapped her arms around my neck, attempting to pull me in further, but I refused. Not until she gave me what I want.

"Open your eyes, Santana."

Her face went through a number of emotions before finally giving up. She was still biting down on her lip when she slowly relaxed the muscles in her face, and opened her eyes. She looked at me with such desperation and vulnerability that I was afraid to look away, for fear I might just loose her completely. My thumb found its way home with a renewed sense of energy, and looking into those eyes as she hit her peak was probably the most intense experience of my short life. It was as though lightning shot up from her eyes to mine, through me then back into her with each thrust. We became a single current for the energy she was releasing onto me and I didn't know where I began or where she ended, but all I knew was that I was finally seeing her for the first time. _All_ of her. In that moment, she looked so fragile.

I can't remember who started crying first. I just know that there were tears coming out of her eyes, and mine were falling down, mingling with hers as they were absorbed by the mattress. She looked so broken and open as she came down off her high, still trembling around my fingers, and I couldn't help but press my lips against hers. She didn't react at first, she just allowed me to take the reins as I kissed away the stray tears that were still falling. I could feel her sobbing, my lips tingling from the tears that had fallen against her heaving chest, and I returned my lips to hers. With all her defenses down, she responded with a slow, languid kiss, and I didn't pressure her for anything more. I was seeing her for the first time, reading her completely without inhibition, and I took advantage of it for as long as I could.

Neither of us spoke as we laid in bed for hours, watching the rain fall heavily outside my window, taking in the rest of the night. She stayed with her back pressed against mine, looking out the window while I pressed kisses along her arms. I don't know what time either of us fell asleep, but I remember waking up and finding her sitting at my desk fully clothed. She mumbled something about not wanting to leave until I woke up, and made a quick, discrete exit. I spent the rest of my Sunday calling her, only to get her voice mail.

I suppose, if I really think about it, shortly after that was when I began losing sight of her. She would no longer look me in the eyes and she avoided me; keeping me at a distance like she did so many other people in her life. But I refused to be just another person she hid herself from. So I pushed. I pushed and pushed and suddenly there were Duets, and boyfriends and something about an Indigo Girls Concert I still don't understand, but at the end of it all, I'd lost my best friend. More than that, I'd lost a part of myself.

But I had to maintain some level of optimism. I had to believe that if I gave her all the space she needed, she'd come back to me. And she did. Gradually, but when she came back, I was just happy to have her again. After all the drama of Prom and Nationals died down, I had time to focus on myself. I had time to focus on us.

And that's how I ended up here, staring at the dark wallpaper that line Santana's bedroom. I was lying on my back with my head to the edge of the bed while she was at the vanity, searching something on her laptop. I glance over at her briefly, before looking back up at the ceiling. I haven't been in this bedroom for weeks now, but coming back here feels like coming back home. We've been in this situation before, lounging around her bedroom on a summer's afternoon, but with everything that has happened between us, I can't help but close my eyes, and breathe in deeply. It's a good feeling to be back—

"You still with me, Britt Britt?"

I open my eyes quickly and roll my head to the side to find Santana slightly turned in her seat, staring at me. Her arm was thrown lazily over the side while she wore an expression of concern. She knits her eyebrows together with confusion when I don't answer right away and I can't help but smile.

"Yeah. I'm still with you."

"Just making sure," she says with a coy smile. "I saw you stare at the wall for about half an hour, so I figured you were doing your 'thing'." She brings her hands together and forms air quotations.

Without looking, she throws an arm behind her and closes her laptop. Wordlessly, she moves towards the bed. I scoot closer to the wall as she lies beside me, staring up at the ceiling. Another familiar situation that we've been in before that I missed more than I realized.

She was silent for a few minutes before she quietly asks, "What can you see when you look in my eyes?"

As long as I've known her, she's never asked me to read her before. Without even hesitating, I turn my head to stare deeply into her eyes, reading her more than I've ever read anyone before. Every moment that we've shared seems to flash on a projector in my mind as I continue to look at her. We were no longer the same little girls that would stay up all night playing Candyland in this room. We were no longer who we used to be, and as much as I may not want to believe that we aren't the same, I come to the conclusion while staring into her eyes, that like what we have become. We have grown, and there is only up from here.

My eyes skim across her body, noticing how see seemed to just melt into the bed beside me. Her hand was only millimeters from mine, and instinctively, my hand reached out to hers. My fingers lace around left hand, all the while my eyes stay fixed on her eyes. I knew she was expecting my pinky to find hers, and when her mouth hangs open briefly from shock, I grip her hand lightly to let her know it's all right.

I shift closer to her and whisper so surely, "Possibility."

Santana stays quiet for a while before her lips find their way to my shoulder, placing a short sweet kiss on my exposed skin. She closes her eyes, breathing out heavily and I follow suit, closing my eyes as well. Before I drift off into sleep, I feel her fingers grip around mine.

I know it's her way of letting me know that it's going to be all right.

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><p>The title of this story was inspired by God is an Astronaut's "Fragile". Thank you for reading and I hope that you enjoyed.<p> 


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